


Long Live the Queen

by AmunetMana



Series: Kings and Queens [2]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Pitch is terrible at care, sequel to "True Beauty"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmunetMana/pseuds/AmunetMana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after taking Jack in and sculpting him into the perfect Queen, things are once again dark in Pitch's Kingdom. Visits are made, and threats are issued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Live the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Once again for Nicole, although not so much her fault this time, but mine.

Pitch stepped out from the bedroom, holding a bowl of lukewarm water. It had once been ice, and he poured it away unceremoniously, chipping more ice into the bowl. He was in only his simplest robes, crown and silvery robes discarded. There was a flash out of the corner of his eyes as he worked but he barely responded, continuing with the ice until he’d filled the bowl.

 

“What do you want?” he asked as he finished, turning to face the two Guardians as he did so. “Have you come to worsen the sickness you’ve placed on my Queen?”

 

“He is _not_ yer Queen!!” Bunnymund snarled at him, taking a step forward, hand flying to his boomerang. North’s hand fell on his shoulder; grip tight as he held Bunny back.

 

“Pitch,” North tried instead, and it was a _plea_ of all the ridiculous things, “Pitch, let him go outside. We are not doing this to take him, but he _needs_ the snow. He needs the wind, the skies…Pitch it is being trapped that is killing him – “

 

“He is _not_ trapped, he is _where he belongs!!”_ Pitch screamed at them, throwing the bowl of ice in rage. The guardians dodged easily, but it was satisfying to hear the shatter of the bowl, to see the shock on their faces. Pitch had no more followers or believers than before, but in that moment there was enough rage within him to destroy both guardians where they stood. “He is ill because of you, because you can’t stand to see him here with me, where he was always meant to be,” Pitch continued furiously, advancing on the two Guardians, shadows swirling around him, “do you think that I’d let you near him, even for a _second?_ ”

 

“We just want him safe,” North pleaded, but Pitch was resolute.

 

“He is safe. From _you_ ,” the Bogeyman hissed, gathering a fresh bowl of ice. “You would do well to disappear from the place, before I take my Queen far away from here, to a place you will never find him again.” With that, he swept past the two Guardians, uncaring for their presence. If they heeded his command, fine. If they refused to do so…Pitch had no qualms about following through with his threats. He had, after all, nothing to loose.

 

Re-entering the room just down the corridor, Pitch calmed himself, pulling on as pleasant an expression as he could to face his Queen with.

 

Jack lay on the bed, tucked under many sheets and blankets. Only the top of his dress could be seen above the covers, a Grecian style wrapping across his chest in purple, a bodice just appearing below that. Pitch normally preferred to see him in tight corsets, the boy breathless and gasping his name, but he couldn’t afford to have Jack at his most beautiful now. Not when he was pale beyond snow, into sickness, when he was barely breathing even when unrestricted. Sweat trailed down his cheeks, and Pitch tried not to notice that rather than sweat, the trails originated from Jack’s eyes.

 

“My Queen,” he murmured, reverently, peeling back the covers to help Jack sit up. “Darling, I brought you more ice. You’ll like that, yes?” Jack moaned faintly, as Pitch placed a gentle arm around him, lifting him up to prop him on multiple pillows, his arm staying coiled around Jack’s shoulder all the while. The sheets fell down, joining chiffon and ribbons in tangling around Jack’s legs, the boy barely having the strength to move underneath the weight. Pitch stroked his fingers through white hair, tapping along the silvery, woven circlet there in place of his usual heavy crown.

 

Jack’s eyelids fluttered, a tiny movement, but enough to encourage Pitch to raise a chip of ice to Jack’s lips, the coolness against nightmare-darkened lips drawing them open, to allow a moan to escape, and the chip of ice to slip in. Pitch’s finger’s followed behind it, for once not a sexual movement but rather a simple defence to make sure Jack didn’t choke on the ice. It melted quickly in Jack’s mouth, his temperature far too high, for anyone, let alone a frost spirit. Logic roared furiously in Pitch’s mind, layering him in dresses, piling blankets atop Jack, of course he was too warm…it had been years since Jack had even see fresh snow, let along touched and frolicked amongst it.

 

But logic had never been a voice Pitch had time for. He was feeling and desire, rage and fear. And he had never felt so much chaos crashing in his head as he did whilst cradling the dying Jack in his arms. Pitch bit back the chaos oh his mine, however, in order to brush his fingers up Jack’s arm, across a filmy, silvery strap of the dress, and up to Jack’s cheek.

 

“How about a nice bath?” Pitch said softly, stroking Jack’s face. “Yes, my Queen? Would you like that?” Jack moaned softly in response, twisting away from Pitch’s touch. “…Perhaps later,” Pitch murmured, bending down to kiss Jack’s forehead softly, cradling his face.

 

Hot drips fell onto Jack’s face, the boy’s face crinkling, before blue eyes finally blinked open, to see Pitch above him. Despite the sickness that ran through his veins, the unbearableness of the heat he must be feeling, Jack’s eyes were clear. For the first time in years, he looked upon the Nightmare King with pure clarity in his eyes.

 

“Pitch…?” Jack asked faintly, and Pitch cringed.

 

“Your _King_ is here,” he told Jack, trying to keep his tone earnest. “You don’t need to worry, I’m here; I’ll take care of you…” Pitch’s words trailed off as Jack moaned, twisting in his grip. There was heat on Pitch’s face, droplets of burning heat that rolled down his cheeks, unhindered and unwanted. Pitch raised a hand to them, and could only stare uncomprehendingly at the moisture there.

 

“No,” Jack moaned, Pitch almost missing the sound as he fought back the tears.

 

“My lovely Queen, I don’t…”

 

“Jack,” came the cry, and Pitch fell silent. Jack’s eyes opened, water from the ice leaking from the corner of his sparkling black lips, and liquid he couldn’t afford to lose in the tears that began to gather in his own eyes, “my name…is Jack.”

 

“It was, once,” Pitch relented, indulging the feverish dreaming of his tiny Queen. “My Queen, my darling, that is all behind you. It’s…it’s part of what’s making you ill. Holding onto that.“

 

“No…” Jack stirred again, “No! M’not your Queen, I’m _not_ …” he was twisting and squirming with more strength than he’d displayed in days, but Pitch was filled with only panic. Jack’s lucidity wasn’t as he wished, he should be talking like this, shouldn’t be…shouldn’t be angry at Pitch, Pitch was only trying to help…

 

“No my Queen, my Queen, you’re…”

 

“Why can’t you just say my name?” Jack cried out, tears trailing down his cheeks, cutting across Pitch’s words completely, twisting again in his grip. “Why won’t you let me go?” Jack arched on the bed, his body seeking out the air, pressing towards the sky…it was like a craving, Jack’s body was straining desperately to find snow, to find the cold, the fresh. Salvation. Pitch would let him go, he would, but…

 

“The Guardians,” he said, “the Guardians will steal you from me if I take you up there. It’s not safe…I have ice for you here, see?” Pitch pressed another chip towards Jack’s mouth, but Jack twisted his head and let it slide down onto the floor.

 

“I don’t want that,” Jack cried softly, “I want the Guardians. I want to be home, I want my clothes back, my staff…why did you take it all from me? Why did you do this to me?” he asked, curling on his side, curling away from Pitch, burying his face into the pillow, the damp seeping into the fabric. His every movement looked torturous to Pitch, and soon grey hands were reaching for the boy.

 

“Let me – Let me _take care of you_ – “

 

“No!” Jack screamed, the sound raw and pained as it ripped from his throat, “this isn’t caring, this is _killing!_ I will never, ever forgive you for what you’ve done to me, Pitch! I am not your Queen, I am not your _anything_ , I hate you, I hate you! You killed me Pitch,” he accused, as Pitch shook his head, denying, rejecting the mere thought –

 

“You’re killing me _right now_!” Jack’s words become sobs, and Pitch coiled back at the waves of fear that rolled off Jack, his jerking, too thin body. Until, abruptly, Jack stopped. Jack’s shoulders fell still, the vibrations through his tiny frame ceasing, the waves of fear ceased.

 

 

“Jack,” Pitch murmured, too little too late. “Jack…?” he reached forward desperately, gathering the chiffon draped boy into his grasp, arms tightened around Jack. And now, suddenly, he understood the tears that rolled down his cheeks, the wrenching pain in his chest, the panic, the absolute fear. “Jack, Jack, Jack, no, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry,_ ” he hissed the words, shouted them out like they might make a difference. Like they might bring back any kind of sensation to Jack’s still, warm body.

 

 

The words became shouts, screams, ripped out in sobs that wracked Pitch’s body, until his threw back his shoulders and howled, screamed until his throat ran raw and bloody. The pain continued to rumble and wrack through his as even after his voice was long gone, sobs continued to pour from his lips, angry, furious things that had Pitch’s claws digging deep into Jack’s shadow-painted arms, dead blood beading where he pricked the skin. Pitch stopped as soon as he realised what was happening, seeing how he harmed Jack even now.

 

He couldn’t help himself.

 

He wiped the beads away frantically, hoping even then to see Jack gasp in pain, twist in his arms, look at him with tear-stained eyes. Pitch didn’t even need Jack to love him. He just needed him to _live_.

 

Well.

 

It was too late for that now.


End file.
